Soulmates
by inelegancy
Summary: Part of the Tenebrity rewrite. Victoria will do anything to make sure that James is alive and well. No price is too high for that. "We were two halves of a whole, two sides of a coin, a perfect fit. He knew how to get to what we wanted and I knew how to get away from what we feared. Together, we were unstoppable." Chapter Two: Searching.
1. Sundered

**This is part of a comprehensive rewrite of the Twilight series. ****If you haven't read Tenebrity yet, that would be a good place to start. **

**School has started, so I'm up to my eyeballs in history papers and my three on-campus jobs, but the idea for this-an explanation of why Victoria appears the way she does in Tenebrity, as well as an exploration of her character and motivations-wouldn't stop running through my head. This will be a short story, probably no more than ten thousand words, showing Tenebrity from Victoria's perspective. I will keep writing on the main work in between bursts of inspiration for this.**

**Content note for murder and vampiric thirst.**

* * *

Something was wrong.

James was never gone this long. We were two halves of a whole, two sides of a coin, a perfect fit. He knew how to get to what we wanted and I knew how to get away from what we feared. Together, we were unstoppable. Separately, we were vulnerable. Incomplete.

I paced the length of the narrow barrack that we had been housed in, pausing only to glare at the bright window. I hated the south, with its long, sunny days that confined us to quarters. That was why I had been so eager to scout out the northern territory when it had been suggested. I would like to live in a place where I could be out and about during the day.

"I should have gone," I said, whirling toward where Laurent lounged on one of the bunks. Our host was gracious enough to let us have the place to ourselves—though that might just have been because they didn't want their newborns to get any ideas. "I'm the one who always escapes. If there are any hostile covens up there, I should have been the one to find out."

We had had this conversation several times. Laurent frowned, sitting up. "He has the most combat experience," he said, his French accent making the words sound understanding rather than chiding. "We agreed—"

"I would never have let it get that far," I snarled, ripping my fingers through my hair. "He could be hurt—dead—anything could have happened to him. What if there are still werewolves in those woods?"

"Werewolves are extinct," Laurent soothed. "They haven't been seen since the purges of the 1500s."

"We're a continent away from the source of those purges." My eyes stung, though I couldn't cry. "If I could escape from them, don't you think something else might have?"

"You've made up your mind, haven't you?" Laurent asked, sounding resigned.

"Yes." The only thing stronger than my fear was my love, and I needed to find my partner… or avenge him.

Hopefully it wouldn't come to that.

I set off that evening with enough US dollars to pay for motel rooms and still stretch to cover any emergencies I might have, courtesy of our host. She had expressed sympathy when I told her what my plans were and sent me off with her best wishes.

I didn't have to be a tracker to be able to follow James' trail—it led across the dry desert, scent still tangible despite the nearly three weeks that had passed. Against my better instincts, I ran—though I wouldn't tire like a human would if they tried to sustain the pace for too long, exerting myself would push me to feed more often, and hunts that abided by the rules set by the Volturi sometimes took a full night.

I followed the trail north, crossing the border at an unguarded stretch, but when the sky began to lighten I knew I couldn't stay out for much longer. I didn't know where the next motel was, so I backtracked to the last sign I had seen, which led to a rundown place along a freeway. I rented a room and spent the day flipping through channels on the old TV set impatiently, unable to focus on anything for more than a few minutes. I couldn't stop wondering. Fearing. James died a thousand deaths in my mind, always alone. Unprotected.

By the afternoon I was a nervous wreck, staring through the blinds as the sun lowered slowly toward the horizon. The second it disappeared over the low rolling hills I lifted the sill and slipped out, unwilling to let even the short checkout process delay me any further.

I ran faster that night, averaging nearly a hundred miles an hour over the rough New Mexican terrain. Once I lost the trail and had to backtrack, finally picking it up outside of a small town. He smelled bloody—the scent reminded me how quickly I was burning through my last meal, but I couldn't bring myself to stop. Not yet. Not until the sun forced me to, just after I crossed the Utah State line. I almost took refuge in a forest far from any campground, but. Too many years on the run.

I spent the last hour before the sun rose looking for some kind of shelter. Just as I was resigned to climbing a tree and gritting my teeth through the short winter day—I knew that the sun couldn't harm me, that it was only dangerous if any humans were around to see, but I still felt uncomfortable being exposed to it—I stumbled across a nearly-empty cabin camp. The hosts, an elderly couple, slumbered in one cabin; the rest of the camp was empty.

I was too hungry to resist. If I had a mirror, I was sure that my eyes would be completely black. I tested the bedroom window—unlocked. I slid it quietly upward and crawled through, careful to make as little sound as possible.

The man sighed in his sleep as I approached the bed. I flicked open my knife—murder victims with bite marks were a subject that the Volturi frequently deigned to investigate.

James liked to play with his food. I wasn't like that—I made their deaths as painless as possible. Just because I was a monster of legend didn't mean that I had to act monstrous. Two quick slashes and it was over. The woman opened her eyes before she died and for a moment I felt guilt at the panic and vulnerability on her face, but it passed. It always passed.

I had to make it look messier, though. Some quick knifework made it seem as though the two had been murdered by an inept attacker, probably intent on burgling the cabin. Finished, I set about slaking my thirst.

Once that was done, I ransacked the place. I pulled clothes out of drawers, left the mattress half-off the bed, smashed dishes, overturned a bookcase, even went through the bathroom cabinets. I took anything that looked valuable. I didn't need the money now, thanks to Laurent's schmoozing, but it might come in handy later.

I spent the rest of the day on high alert. It seemed unlikely that anyone would come by—I doubted there was much demand for cabins in the middle of the forest in February. Still, every sound frayed my already-jittery nerves. The second it was safe, I was back on the road. The trail was more difficult to follow now, but I stuck to, slowing down occasionally to touch a tree that held the scent. It was almost like being able to touch him. Almost.

My worst fears were realized when I lost the trail halfway through Idaho. Too much rain had washed it away completely and despite my best efforts I couldn't pick it back up again. But I kept going. He was headed to Washington, I knew that much.

I'll find him. I have to.


	2. Searching

**Here's another look into the interesting mind of Victoria Howard! If you haven't already, check out the main project (Tenebrity) that this is part of or my other side project (Gratitude), the love story that Angela and Leah deserve.**

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Near the end of the next day I finally crossed the Washington State line. I traveled north to Pullman. Surely gossip would flow freely in a college town. I holed up in a cut-rate motel, grateful of the chance to wash the forest out of my hair.

Before the sun came up, I ventured out to pick up a copy of the local newspaper immediately and scanned it, looking for missing persons or unusual deaths. I found a single line in a letter to the editor referencing a cougar attack that had apparently happened recently, but no mention of when or where. _That could be him_, I thought, desperately hopeful. If he was hunting... he probably wasn't dead. Probably. _I'm never letting him leave again without one of those—what do they call them—cell phones_. We didn't usually bother with modern technology, but I was starting to see its usefulness.

I needed a way to find him. A story, something to ask people without raising their suspicions. I headed back to my motel room to mull it over for the day—an occasional glance through the window confirmed that, though it was weak, the sun was still present enough for me to be careful.

As soon as darkness had fallen (and it didn't take that long, up here in the cold North) I went to an office store and got them to print me a small box filled with creamy white business cards that read _Victoria Howard, Private Investigator_. I hated to part with it for even a minute, but I relinquished the only photo I had of James, taken in Greece in 1983 on a Polaroid that had been my pride possession for several years, so that they could scan it.

Then I headed to the closest library and—although they made me sign up for a library card to do it—searched for more information about the cougar attacks. They had taken place not far from the small town of Port Angeles, which was another day's travel. My fingers trembled as I read the date of the attacks; they were more than a week old… what if something had happened to him in the meantime? I had to find out as soon as possible.

I printed a map of the area between Pullman and Port Angeles and waited only long enough to commit the quickest route to memory before I headed out moving as fast as I could without attracting undue attention. As soon as the lights of the college town faded behind me, I began to run in earnest. I covered the four hundred miles in a little under six hours—slower only because I had to limit myself to a jog through Seattle.

My first stop within the town's limits was at a 24/7 convenience store. The clerk was patently disinterested in the story I had come up with during my run—that James was a missing person, possibly in danger.

I tried again at a gas station, but got the same reaction. The sun was rising, but… this was too urgent. I couldn't explain quite how, but I felt _driven_. Was this how James felt, when he was tracking? Like he couldn't sit down, couldn't take a breath, until he had found his quarry?

My next target was a small diner that was just opening for breakfast. It took a minute to strike up a conversation—an older man, with spidery blue veins that drew my attention.

He glanced at my business card perfunctorily. Peered at the picture of James. Cleared his throat. "Haven't seen him."

"He's a missing person," I explained, trying to keep the edge of panic out of my voice. "Been missing for, oh, about three weeks."

"Running from something?" he asked, then furrowed his brow. "Three weeks ago?" He brightened. "That's about the time that librarian got murdered. You don't think _he_—"

Finally, someone was paying attention. I hesitated to draw attention to James as a potential criminal, but… if it worked… "He might," I said, trying to sound ominous. "He could be armed and dangerous. Look closer—are you sure you haven't seen him?"

He squinted, the veins in his neck pulsing with the effort. "My memory isn't what it used to be. I wish I could be more helpful."

It wasn't much, but it was _something_. I would find him. I _would_.

"I heard you had some cougar attacks around here," I said, trying to get more information while I could. "Does that happen often?"

He chuckled. "First in years," he said. "But I wouldn't say they were around _here_, you understand. They were out near Forks. Forest country, that is."

"Forks? Is that a town?" _What a stupid name._

"Hardly a town." He let out a hacking cough. "Ninety miles down the 101."

That would be my next stop, I decided. "Thank you for your help."

"It's not every day I get to help a girl as pretty as yourself," he said. I felt my face twitch. Too bad I wasn't hungry. I made some hasty excuse and retreated from the diner.

The sun stayed behind the clouds long enough for me to find another cheap motel and check in. My room smelled like cigarette smoke and sex, but it didn't matter. James was in danger—I could feel it. He needed me, and I wouldn't stop until we were together again.


End file.
